The carpet from bagdad

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THECARPETFROMBAGDAD


THECARPETFROM


BAGDAD
By


HAROLDMACGRATH
Authorof
ASPLENDIDHAZARD
THEMANONTHEBOX

WITHILLUSTRATIONSBY
ANDRECASTAIGNE



INDIANAPOLIS
THEBOBBS-MERRILLCOMPANY
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT1911
THEBOBBS-MERRILLCOMPANY

TO
ROBERTHICHENS

The wild hawk to the
windsweptsky,
The

deer

to

the

wholesomewold,
And the heart of a man to
theheartofamaid,
As it was in the days of
old.
—
RudyardKipling.


CONTENTS
I WHAT'SINANAME?
II ANAFFABLEROGUE
III THEHOLYYHIORDES
IV ANOLDACQUAINTANCE
V THEGIRLWHOWASN'TWANTED
VI MOONLIGHTANDPOETRY
VII RYANNETABLESHISCARDS
VIII THEPURLOINEDCABLE
IX THEBITTERFRUIT

X MAHOMEDLAUGHS
XI EPISODIC
XII THECARAVANINTHEDESERT
XIII NOTACHEERFULOUTLOOK
XIV MAHOMEDOFFERSFREEDOM
XV FORTUNE'SRIDDLESOLVED
XVI MAHOMEDRIDESALONE
XVII MRS.CHEDSOYEHASHERDOUBTS
XVIII THEMANWHODIDN'TCARE
XIX FORTUNEDECIDES
XX MARCHHARES
XXI ABOTTLEOFWINE
XXII THEENDOFTHEPUZZLE


CHAPTERI
WHAT'SINANAME?
To possesstwo distinctlyalienredcorpusclesinone'sblood,metaphoricallyif
not in fact, two characters or individualities under one epidermis, is, in most
cases, a peculiar disadvantage. One hears of scoundrels and saints striving to
consume one another in one body, angels and harpies; but ofttimes, quite the
contrary to being a curse, these two warring temperaments become a man's
ultimateblessing:asinthecaseofGeorgeP.A.Jones,ofMortimer&Jones,the
greatmetropolitanOrientalrugandcarpetcompany,allofwhichhasadignified,
sonorous sound. George was divided within himself. This he would not have
confessed even into the trusted if battered ear of the Egyptian Sphynx. There
was, however, no demon-angel sparring for points in George's soul. The
difficultymightbesetforthinthismanner:Ononesidestoodinherentcommon
sense; on the other, a boundless, roseate imagination which was likewise
inherent—a kind of quixote imagination of suitable modern pattern. This alter

egoterrifiedhimwheneveritraiseditsstrangelybeautifulheadandshouldered
asidehisguardian-angel(forthat'swhatcommonsenseis,arguetowhatendyou
will) and pleaded in that luminous rhetoric under the spell of which our old
friendSanchooftenfellasleep.
P.A.,astheycalledhimbehindthecounters,wasbuttwenty-eight,andifhewas
vice-president in his late father's shoes he didn't wabble round in them to any
great extent. In a crowd he was not noticeable; he didn't stand head and
shoulders above his fellow-men, nor would he have been mistaken by nearsighted persons, the myopes, for the Vatican's Apollo in the flesh. He was of
medium height, beardless, slender, but tough and wiry and enduring. You may
seehisprototypeonthestreetsadozentimestheday,andyoumayalsopasshim
without turning round for a second view. Young men like P. A. must be
intimately known to be admired; you did not throw your arm across his neck,
first-off.Hishairwasbrownandcloselyclippedaboutaheadthatwouldhave
gainedtheattentionofthephrenologist,ifnotthatofthecasualpasser-by.His
bumps, in the phraseology of that science, were good ones. For the rest, he
observedtheworldthroughapairofkindly,shy,blueeyes.
Younggirls,myopicthroughignoranceorsilliness,seeingnothingbeyondwhat


theeyessee,seldomgavehimasecondinspection;forhedidnotknowhowto
make himself attractive, and was mortally afraid of the opposite, or opposing,
sex.Hecouldbully-ragasheikoutofhiscamels'saddle-bags,butpetticoatsand
laceparasolsandsmallOxfordshadthesameeffectuponhimthattheprodding
stickofasmallboyhasuponaretiringturtle.Butmanyaworldly-wisewoman,
drawing out with tact and kindness the truly beautiful thoughts of this young
man'ssoul,sadlydemandedoffatewhyasweet,cleanboylikethisonehadnot
beensenttoherinheryouth.Yousee,theworldly-wisewomanknowsthatitis
invariably the lay-figure and not Prince Charming that a woman marries, and
thatmatrimonyisblindman's-buffforgrown-ups.
Manyofuslaythe blame uponour parents. We shifttheburdenof wondering

why we have this fault and lack that grace to the shoulders of our immediate
forebears. We go to the office each morning denying that we have any
responsibility; we let the boss do the worrying. But George never went
prospectinginhissoulforanysuchdrossphilosophy.Hewasgratefulforhaving
hadsobeautifulamother;proudofhavinghadsohonestasire;andifeitherof
themhadenduedhimwithfalseweightshedidhisbesttoevenupthebalance.
ThemotherhadbeenasromanticasanyheroineoutofMrs.Radcliff'snovels,
while the father had owned to as much romance as one generally finds in a
thoroughbusinessman,whichispracticallynoneatall.Theverynameitselfisa
bulwark against the intrusions of romance. One can not lift the imagination to
theprospectofpicturingaJonesinrufflesandhighboots,pinkingavarletinthe
midriff.Itsmellsofsugar-barrelsandcotton-bales,ofsteamshipsandrailroads,
ofstolidroutineintheofficeandofplacidconcernoverthedailynewsunderthe
eveninglamp.
Mrs.Jones,lovely,letteredyetnotworldly,haddreamedofherboy,bayedand
decorated, marrying the most distinguished woman in all Europe, whoever she
mightbe.Mr.Joneshadhadnodreamsatall,andhadputtheboytoworkinthe
shippingdepartmentalittlewhileafterthecollegethresholdhadbeencrossed,
outward bound. The mother, while sweet and gentle, had a will, iron under
velvet,andwhensheheldoutforPercivalAlgernonandadecentknowledgeof
modernlanguages,theoldmanagreedif,ontheotherhand,theboy'sfirstname
shouldbeGeorgeandthatheshouldlearnthebusinessfromthecellarup.There
were several tilts over the matter, but at length a truce was declared. It was
agreed that the boy himself ought to have a word to say upon a subject which
concernedhimmorevitallythananyoneelse.So,attheageoffifteen,whenhe
wasstartingoffforpreparatoryschool,hewasadvisedtochooseforhimself.He


was an obedient son, adoring his mother and idolizing his father. He wrote
himselfdownasGeorgePercivalAlgernonJones,promisedtobecomealinguist

andtolearntherugbusinessfromthecellarup.Onthefaceofit,itlookedlikea
bigjob;italldependedupontheboy.
Thefirstdayatschoolhismiserybegan.HehadsignedhimselfasGeorgeP.A.
Jones, no small diplomacy for a lad; but the two initials, standing up like
dismantledpinesinthemidstofuninterestinglandscape,rousedthecuriosityof
hisschool-mates.Boysareboystheworldover,andpossessafinesseincruelty
thatonlytheIndiancanmatch;anditdidnottakethemlongtounearththefatal
secret.ForthreeyearshewasPercyAlgy,andnotonlytheboyslaughed,butthe
prettygirlssniggered.Manyatimehehadreturnedtohisdormitorydecorated
(notinaccordwiththefondhopesofhismother)withaswollenear,oraruddy
proboscis,oragreen-browneye.Therewasalimit,andwhentheysteppedover
that,why,heproceededtothebestofhisabilitytosolvethedifficultywithhis
fists. George was no milksop; but Percival Algernon would have been the Old
Man of the Sea on broader shoulders than his. He dimly realized that had he
been named George Henry William Jones his sun would have been many
diameters larger. There was a splendid quality of pluck under his apparent
timidity, and he stuck doggedly to it. He never wrote home and complained.
Whatwasgoodenoughforhismotherwasgoodenoughforhim.
It seemed just an ordinary matter of routine for him to pick up French and
German verbs. He was far from being brilliant, but he was sensitive and his
memorywassound.Sincehismother'sambitionwastoseehimanaccomplished
linguist, he applied himself to the task as if everything in the world depended
upon it, just as he knew that when the time came he would apply himself as
thoroughlytothequestionofrugsandcarpets.
Under all thisfilialloyaltyran thepurestrainof goldenromance,sidebyside
with the lesser metal of practicality. When he began to read the masters he
preferred their romances to their novels. He even wrote poetry in secret, and
whenhismotherdiscoveredthefactshecriedoverthesentimentalverses.The
father had to be told. He laughed and declared that the boy would some day
developintoagoodwriterofadvertisements.Thisquietlaughter,unburdenedas

itwaswithridicule,wasenoughtosetGeorge'smusea-winging,andshenever
cameback.
Afterleavingcollegehewasgivenamodestletterofcreditandtoldtogowhere
he pleased for a whole year. George started out at once in quest of the Holy
Grail, and there are more roads to that than there are to Rome. One may be


reasonably sure of getting into Rome, whereas the Holy Grail (diversified,
variable,innumerable)isalwaystheexactsumofabunchofhayhangingbefore
oldDobbin'snose.Nevertheless,Georgegallopedhisfancieswithlooserein.He
haunted the romantic quarters of the globe; he hunted romance, burrowed and
plowedforit;andneverhisspadeclangedmusicallyagainstthehiddentreasure,
never a forlorn beauty in distress, not so much as chapter one of the Golden
Bookoffereditsdazzlingfirstpage.Georgelostsomeconfidence.
Two or three times a woman looked into the young man's mind, and in his
guilelessness they effected sundry holes in his letter of credit, but left his soul
singularlyuntouched.Theredcorpuscle,hisfather'sgift,thoughitlaydormant,
subconsciouslyerectedbarriers.Hewasinnocent,buthewasnofool.Thatone
yeartaughthimthelesson,rathercheaply,too.Iftherewasanyromanceinlife,
it came uninvited, and if courted and sought was as quick on the wing as that
erstwhilepoesymuse.
Theyearpassed,andwhilehehadnotwhollygivenupthequest,thepractical
GeorgeagreedwiththeromanticPercivaltoshelveitindefinitely.Hereturnedto
New York with thirty-pounds sterling out of the original thousand, a fact that
rejuvenatedhispaternalparentbysometenyears.
"Jane,thatboyisallright.PercivalAlgernoncouldnotkillaboylikethat."
"Do you mean to infer that it ever could?" Sometimes a qualm wrinkled her
conscience. Her mother's heart told her that her son ought not to be shy and
bashful,thatitwasnotinthenatureofhisbloodtosuspectridiculewherethere
was none. Perhaps she had handicapped him with those names; but it was too

latenowtoadmitofthis,anduseless,sinceitwouldnothaveremediedtheevil.
Joneshemmedandhawedforaspace."No,"heanswered;"butIwasafraidhe
mighttrytoliveuptoit;andnoPercivalAlgernonwholiveduptoitcouldput
his nose down to a Shah Abbas and tell how many knots it had to the square
inch.I'llstarthiminonthejobto-morrow."
Whereuponthemothersatbackdreamily. Now,wherewasthegirlworthyher
boy?Monumentalquestion,besettingeverymother,fromEvedown,Eve,whose
trialsinthisdirectionmusthavebeenheartrending!
Georgeleftthecellarinduetime,andafterthathewentuptheladderinbounds,
onhisownmerit,mindyou,forhisfatherneverstirredahandtoboosthim.He
took the interest in rugs that turns a buyer into a collector; it became a
fascinatingpleasureratherthanabusiness.Hebecameinvaluabletothehouse,
and acquired some fame as a judge and an appraiser. When the chief-buyer


retiredGeorgewasgiventheposition,withanitinerarythatcarriedhimhalfway
round the planet once a year, to Greece, Turkey, Persia, Arabia, and India, the
landsofthegeniiandthebottles,ofarabesques,oftemplesandtombs,ofmanycoloredturbansandflowingrobesanddistractingtongues.Hewalkedalwaysin
akindofmentalenchantment.
ThesuaveandelusiveOriental,withhissharppractices,foundhismatchinthis
pleasant young man, who knew the history of the very wools and cottons and
silkswoveninarugorcarpet.SoGeorgeprospered,becameknowninstrange
places,bystrangepeoples;andsawromance,lightoffootandeagerofeye,pass
and repass; learned that romance did not essentially mean falling in love or
rescuing maidens from burning houses and wrecks; that, on the contrary, true
romance was kaleidoscopic, having more brilliant facets than a diamond; and
that the man who begins with nothing and ends with something is more
wonderfulthananyexcursionrecountedbySinbadoranytalebyScheherazade.
Buthestillhopedthattheiridescentgoddesswouldsomedaytouchhisshoulder
andleadhimintothatmazeofromancesopeculiartohisownfancy.

And then into this little world of business and pleasure came death and death
again,leavinghimaloneandwithatwistedheart.Richesmatteredlittle,andthe
sounding title of vice-president still less. It was with a distinct shock that he
realized the mother and the father had been with him so long that he had
forgottentomakeotherfriends.Fromonethingtoanotherheturnedinhopeto
soothe the smart, to heal the wound; and after a time he drifted, as all shy,
intelligent and imaginative men drift who are friendless, into the silent and
intimate comradeship of inanimate things, such as jewels, ivories, old metals,
rare woods and ancient embroideries, and perhaps more comforting than all
these,goodbooks.
Thepropertaleofhowtheaforesaidiridescentgoddessjostled(foritscarcemay
be said that she led) him into a romance lacking neither comedy nor tragedy,
now begins with a trifling bit of retrospection. One of those women who were
notgoodandwholookedintotheclearpooloftheboy'smindsawtheharmless
longingthere,andmadenote,hopingtofindprofitbyherknowledgewhenthe
pertinentdayarrived.Shewasawomansopleasing,sohandsome,soadroit,that
manyaman,olderandwiserthanGeorge,foundhermeshtoostrongforhim.
Herplanmatured,suddenlyandbrilliantly,asprojectsofmenandwomenofher
classandcaliberwithoutvariationdo.
Late one December afternoon (to be precise, 1909), George sat on the teaverandaoftheHotelSemiramisinCairo.Abooklayidlyuponhisknees.Itwas


one of those yarns in which something was happening every other minute. As
adventuresgo,Georgehadneverhadarealoneinallhistwenty-eightyears,and
hebelievedthatfatehadtreatedhimrathershabbily.Hedidn'tquiteappreciate
her reserve. No matter how late he wandered through the mysterious bazaars,
eitherhereinEgyptoroveryonderinIndia,nothingeverbefellmoreexciting
than an argument with a carriage-driver. He never carried small-arms, for he
would not have known how to use them. The only deadly things in his hands
were bass-rods and tennis-racquets. No, nothing ever happened to him; yet he

nevermetamaninaship'ssmoke-roomwhohadn'trunthegamutofthrilling
experiences.AsGeorgewasn'taliarhimself,hebelievedallhesawandmostof
whatheheard.
Well,herehewas,eight-and-twenty,apocketfullofmoney,aheartfulloflife,
andashopelessanoutlook,sofarasromanceandadventurewereconcerned,as
anoldmaidinaNewEnglandvillage. Whycouldn'tthingsbefallhimasthey
didthechapinthisbook?Hewassurehecouldbehaveaswell,ifnotbetter;for
thisfellowwastoohandsome,toobrave,toostrong,nottobesomethingofan
assonceinawhile.
"George,youoldfool,what'stheuse?"hethought."What'stheuseofadesire
thatnevergoesinastraightline,butalwaysroundandroundinacircle?"
Hethrustasidehisgrievanceandsurrenderedtothenever-endingwonderofthe
Egyptian sunset; the Nile feluccas, riding upon perfect reflections; the datepalms, black and motionless against the translucent blue of the sky; the
amethystineprismsofthePyramids,andthedeepeninggoldofthedesert'sbrim.
He loved the Orient, always so new, always so strange, yet ever so old and
familiar.
A carriage stopped in front, and his gaze naturally shifted. There is ceaseless
attractioninspeculatingaboutnew-comersinahotel,whattheyare,whatthey
do,wheretheycomefrom,andwheretheyaregoing.Afineelderlymanoffifty
got out. In the square set of his shoulders, the flowing white mustache and
imperial,therewasasuggestionofmilitarism.Hewasimmediatelyfollowedby
ayoungwomanoftwenty,certainlynotoverthatage.Georgesighedwistfully.
Heenviedthosepolo-playersandgentleman-ridersandbridge-expertswhowere
stoppingatthehotel.Itwouldn'tbeanhourafterdinnerbeforesomeoneofthem
foundoutwhoshewasandspoketoherinthateasystylewhichheconcluded
mustbeagiftratherthananaccomplishment.Youmustn'tsupposeforaminute
thatGeorgewasn'twell-bornandwell-bred,simplybecausehisnamewasJones.
ManyaFitz-HughMauriceorHughFitz-Mauricemighthavebeen——But,no

matter.Heknewinstinctively,then,whatelegancewaswhenhesawit,andthis
girl was elegant, in dress, in movement. He rather liked the pallor of her skin,
whichhintedthatshewasn'toneofthoseathleticgirlswhobouncedinandout
ofthedining-room,talkingloudlyandsmokingcigarettesandplayingbridgefor
sixpennypoints.Shewastall.Hewassurethathereyeswereonthelevelwith
hisown.ThegreyveilthatdroopedfromtherimofhersimpleLeghornhatto
thetipofhernoseobscuredhereyes,sohecouldnotknowthattheywerelarge
andbrownandindefinablysad.Theyspokenotofawearinessoftravel,butofa
wearinessoftheworld,moreprecisely,ofthepeoplewhoinhabitedit.
She and her companion passed on into the hotel, and if George's eyes veered
againtowardthedesertoverwhichthestealthypurplesofnightwerecreeping,
the impulse was mechanical; he saw nothing. In truth, he was desperately
lonesome,andheknew,moreover,thathehadnobusinesstobe.Hewasyoung;
hecouldatapinchtellajokeaswellasthenextman;andifhehadneverhad
whathecalledanadventure,hehadseenmanystrangeandwonderfulthingsand
could describe them with that mental afterglow which still lingers over the
sunsetofourfirstexpressionsinpoetry.Buttherewasalwaysthathydra-headed
monster,forevergettingabouthisfeet,numbinghisvoice,paralyzinghishands,
andneverheloppedoffaheadthatanotherdidnotinstantlygrowinitsplace.
EventheswordofPerseuscouldnothavesavedhim,sinceonehastogetaway
fromanobjectinordertocutitdown.
Had he really ever tried to overcome this monster? Had he not waited for the
propitious moment (which you and I know never comes) to throw off this
speciesfromHades?Itisallverywell,whenyouareoldanddriedup,toturnto
ivories and metals and precious stones; but when a fellow's young! You can't
shakehandswithan ivory replica of the Taj Mahal, nor exchange pleasantries
with a Mandarin's ring, nor yet confide joys and ills into a casket of rare
emeralds;indeed,theydobutemphasizeone'sloneliness.Ifonlyhehadhada
dog;butonecannotcarryadoghalfwayroundtheworldandback,atleastnot
withcomfort.Whatwithallthesenew-fangledquarantinelaws,duties,andfussy

ships'officerswhowouldn'tletyoukeeptheanimalinyourstate-room,traveling
withafour-footedfriendwasalmostanimpossibility.Tobesure,womenwith
poodles.... And then, there was the bitter of acid in the knowledge that no one
evercameuptohimandslappedhimontheshoulderwitha—"Hel-lo,Georgie,
old sport; what's the good word?" for the simple fact that his shoulder was
alwaysbristlingwithspikes,bornofthefearthatsomeonewasmakingfunof
him.


Perchancehismother'sspirit,hoveringoverhimthisevening,mighthavebeen
inclined to tears. For they do say that the ghosts of the dear ones are thus
employed when we are near to committing some folly, or to exploring some
forgotten chamber of Pandora's box, or worse still, when that lady intends
emptying the whole contents down upon our unfortunate heads. If so be, they
werefutiletears;PercivalAlgernonhadaccomplisheditsdeadlypurpose.
Pandora?Well,then,forthebenefitofthechildren.Shewasaladywhowasan
intimatefriendofthemythologicalgods.Theylikedherappearancesowellthat
theyonedaygaveherabox,casket,chest,orwhateveritwas,toguard.Bysome
marvelousmethod,knownonlyofgods,theyhadgottogetherallthetrialsand
tribulationsofmankind(andsomeofthejoys)andlockedthemupinthiscasket
ItwastheGoldenAgethen,asyoumaysurmise.YourecallEveandtheApple?
Well,PandorawasaforecastofEve;shecouldn'tkeephereyesoffthelatch,and
at length her hands—Fatal curiosity! Whirr! And everything has been at sixes
and at sevens since that time. Pandora is eternally recurring, now here, now
there;sheisablondesometimes,andagainsheisabrunette;andyoumaytakeit
fromGeorgeandmethatthereisalwayssomethingleftinthecasket.
Georgeclosedthebookandconsultedhissailing-list.Inashorttimehewould
leave for Port Saïd, thence to Naples, Christmas there, and home in January.
Businesshadbeenripping.Hewouldbejollygladtogethomeagain,torenew
his comradeship with his treasures. And, by Jove! there was one man who

slapped him on the shoulder, and he was no less a person than the genial
presidentofthefirm,hisfather'spartner,atpresenthisown.Iftheoldchaphad
hadadaughternow....Andhereonecomesatlasttothebottomofthesack.He
hadonlyonedefinitelonging,ahealthyhumanlonging,theonlylongingworth
whileinallthisdeep,wide,roundoldtop:toloveawomanandbyherbeloved.
At exactly half after six the gentleman with the reversible cuffs arrived; and
Georgemissedhisboat.


CHAPTERII
ANAFFABLEROGUE
The carriage containing the gentleman with the reversible cuffs drew up at the
sideentrance.InstantlytheArabguidessurgedandeddiedroundhim;buttheir
clamor brokeagainst a composureaseffectiveasgranite.Theroarwasalmost
directly succeeded by a low gurgle, as of little waves receding. The proposed
victim had not spoken a word; to the Arabs it was not necessary; in some
manner,subtleandindescribable,theyrecognizedabrother.Hecarriedalong,
cylindrical bundle wrapped in heavy paper variously secured by windings of
thicktwine.Hisregardforthisbundlewasoneoftendersolicitude,forhetucked
it under his arm, cumbersome though it was, and waved aside the carriageporter,whowas,however,permittedtocarryinthekit-bag.
The manager appeared. When comes he not upon the scene? His quick,
calculating eye was not wholly assured. The stranger's homespun was travelwornandtime-worn,andofacutpopulartotheseasongonetheyearbefore.No
fat letter of credit here, was the not unreasonable conclusion reached by the
manager. Still, with that caution acquired by years of experience, which had
culminated in what is known as Swiss diplomacy, he brought into being the
accustomedsalutatorysmileandinquiredifthegentlemanhadwrittenaheadfor
reservation,otherwiseitwouldnotbepossibletoaccommodatehim.
"Itelegraphed,"crisply.
"Thename,ifyouplease?"
"Ryanne;spelledR-y-adouble-ne.HaveyoueverbeeninCountyClare?"

"No,sir."Themanageraddedaquestionwiththeupliftofhiseyebrows.
"Well,"wastheenlighteninganswer,"youpronounceitastheydothere."
The manager scanned the little slip of paper in his hand. "Ah, yes; we have
reservedaroomforyou,sir.TheFrenchstyleratherconfusedme."Thiswasnot
offered in irony, or sarcasm, or satire; mining in a Swiss brain for the saving
graceofhumorisaboutasremunerativeastheextractionofgoldfromsea-water.
Nevertheless,theSwisshasthetalentofswiftlysubstractingfromaconfusionof
ideas one point of illumination: there was a quality to the stranger's tone that


decidedhimfavorably.Itwasthevoiceofamaninthehabitofbeingobeyed;
and in these days it was the power of money alone that obtained obedience to
anyman.Beyondthis,thesamenebulouscogitationthathadsubduedtheArabs
outsideactedlikewiseuponhim.Herewasabrother.
"Mail?"
"Iwillsee,sir."Themanagersummonedaporter."Room208."
Theportercaughtupthesomewhatcollapsedkit-bag,whichhadinallevidence
receivedsomeroughusageinitstime,andreachedtowardtheroll.Mr.Ryanne
interposed.
"Iwillseetothat,myman,"tersely.
"Yes,sir."
"Whereisyourguest-list?"demandedMr.Ryanneofthemanager.
"The head-porter's bureau, sir. I will see if you have any mail." The manager
passedintohisownbureau.Itwasratherdifficulttotellwhetherthismanwasan
American or an Englishman. His accent was western, but his manner was
decidedlyBritish.Atanyrate,thattoneandcarriagemustbebastionedbygood
Englishsovereigns,orforoncehisjudgmentwasatfault.
The porter dashed up-stairs. Mr. Ryanne, his bundle still snug under his arm,
sauntered over to the head-porter's bureau and ran his glance up and down the
columnsofvisiting-cards.Oncehenoddedwithapproval,andagainhesmiled,

having discovered that which sent a ripple across his sleeping sense of
amusement. Major Callahan, room 206; Fortune Chedsoye, 205; George P. A.
Jones,210.
"Hm! the Major smells of County Antrim and the finest whisky in all the isle.
Fortune Chedsoye; that is a pleasing name; tinkling brooks, the waving green
grasses in the meadows, the kine in the water, the fleeting shadows under the
oaks; a pastoral, a bucolic name. To claim Fortune for mine own; a happy
thought."
Asheutteredthesepoesyexpressionsaloud,inavoicelowandnotunpleasing,
forallthatitwas bantering, thehead-porterstaredat himwith minglingdoubt
andalarm; andasifto pronounce theseemotionsmutelyforthebenefitofthe
other,hepermittedhiseyestoopentheirwidest.
"Tut,tut;that'sallright,porter.Iamcursedwiththehabitofspeakingmyinmost
thoughts.Somepersonsareafflictedwithinsomnia;somefallasleepinchurch;I


thinkorally.Beastlyhabit,eh?"
Theporterthenunderstoodthathewasdealingnotwithaspeciesofmildlunacy,
but with that kind of light-hearted cynicism upon which the world (as porters
knowit)hadsetitsapprovingseal.Inbrief,hesmiledfaintly;andifhehadany
pleasantry to pass in turn, the approach of the manager, now clothed
metaphoricallyindeferentialism,relegatedittothelimboofthingsthoughtbut
leftunsaid.
"Hereisaletterforyou,Mr.Ryanne.Haveyouanymoreluggage?"
"No."Mr.Ryannesmiled."ShallIpayformyroominadvance?"
"Oh,no,sir!"Tenyearsagothemanagerwouldhaveblushedathavingbeenso
misunderstood."Yourroomis208."
"Willyouhaveaboyshowmetheway?"
"I shall myself attend to that. If the room is not what you wish it may be
exchanged."

"TheroomistheoneItelegraphedfor.Iamsuperstitioustoadegree.Onthree
boatsIhavehadfinestate-roomsnumbered208.Twicethenumberofmyhotel
roomhasbeenthesame.Onthelastvoyagetherewere208passengers,andthe
captainhadmade208voyagesontheMediterranean."
"Quiteacoincident."
"Ah,ifroulettecouldbeplayedwithsuchacertainty."
Mr.Ryannesighed,hitcheduphisbundle,which,beingheavy,wasbeginningto
wearuponhisarm,andsignifiedtothemanagertoleadtheway.
Astheyvanishedroundthecornertothelift,thehead-porterstudiedtheguestlist.Hehadlookedoveritadozentimesthatday,butthiswasthefirstinstance
of his being really interested in it. As his chin was freshly shaven he had no
stubbletostroketoexcitehismentalprocesses;sohefellback,aswesay,upon
theconsolingendsofhisabundantmustache.Curious;butallthesepersonswere
occupying or about to occupy adjacent rooms. There was truly nothing
mysteriousaboutit,savethatthestrangerhadpickedouttheseverynamesasa
targetforhisbanter.FortuneChedsoye;itwasratheranunusualname;butasshe
hadarrivedonlyanhourorsobefore,hecouldnotdistinctlyrecallherfeatures.
And then,therewasthatwordbucolic.Hementallyturneditoverandover as
physicallyhewaswonttodowithpost-cardsleftinhiscaretomail.Hecould
makenothingoftheword,exceptthatitsmackedoftheEastIndianplague.


Herehewassavedfromfurthercerebralagonybyatimelyinterruption.Aman,
whowasnotofbucolicpersuasioneitherindressorspeech,urbanfromthetips
ofhisbleachedfingerstothebulbofhisbibulousnose,leanedacrossthecounter
andaskedifMr.HoraceRyannehadyetarrived.Yes,hehadjustarrived;hewas
even now on his way to his room. The urban gentleman nodded. Then, with a
fingerslimandwell-trimmed,hetrailedupanddowntheguest-list.
"Ha!IseethatyouhavetheDukeofWhat-d'ye-callfromGermanyhere.I'llgive
you my card. Send it up to Mr. Ryanne. No hurry. I shall be in again after
dinner."

Hebustledofftowardthedoor.Hewaspursy,well-fed,anddecentlydressed,the
sortofamanwho,whenhemovedinanydirection,createdtheimpressionthat
he had an important engagement somewhere else or was paring minutes from
time-tables.Foramaninhisbusinessitwasacleverexpedient,deceivingallbut
thosewhoknewhim.Hehesitatedatthedoor,however,asifhehadchangedhis
mindinthetwenty-oddpacesittooktoreachit.Hestaredforalongperiodat
the elderly gentleman who was watching the feluccas on the river through the
window. The white mustache and imperial stood out in crisp relief against the
ruddy sunburn on his face. If he was aware of this scrutiny on the part of the
pursy gentleman, he gave not the least sign. The revolving door spun round,
sendingapuffofoutdoorairintothelounging-room.Theelderlygentlemanthen
smiled,andappliedhisthumbandforefingertothewaxenpointofhisimperial.
In the intervening time Mr. Ryanne entered his room, threw the bundle on the
bed,satdownbesideit,andreadhisletter.Shadowsandlightsmovedacrosshis
face;frownsthathardenedit,smilesthatmellowedit.Womenholdthetrickof
writingletters.Dotheyhate,theirthoughtsflashandburnfromlinetoline.Do
theylove,'tisletteredmusic.Dotheyconspire,thebreadthoftheirimagination
iswithouthorizon.Atbest,mancaninditeonlyapolitebusinessletter,hislovenoteswereadjudgedlongsinceamaudlincollectionofloosesentences.Inthis
letterMr.Ryannefoundthethreepartsoflife.
"She's a good general; but hang these brimstone efforts of hers. She talks too
muchofheart.Formypart,Iprefertoregarditasamerephysicalfunction,a
pump, a motor, a power that gives action to the legs, either in coming or in
going,moreespeciallyingoing."Helaughed."Well,hersistheinspirationand
hers is the law. And to think that she could plan all this on the spur of the
moment,downtotheminutestdetail!It'sascience."Heputtheletteraway,slid
outhislegsandglaredatthedustytipsofhisshoes."TheUnitedRomanceand
AdventureCompany,Ltd.,ofNewYork,London,andParis.Shehasthegreatest


giftofall,thesenseofhumor."

Heroseandopenedhiskit-bagdoubtfully.Herummagedaboutinthedepthsand
atlaststraightenedupwithamildoath.
"Notapairofcuffsinthewholeoutfit,notashirt,notacollar.Oh,well,whena
manhastoleaveBagdadthewayIdid,overthebackfence,sotospeak,linen
doesn'tcount."
Hedrewdownhiscuffs,detachedandreversedthem,heturnedhisfoldingcollar
wrong-sideout,andusedtheundersideofthefoot-rugasashoe-polisher.Itwas
theingeniusprocedureofamanwhowasusedtobeingoutlateofnights,who
made all things answer all purposes. This rapid and singularly careless toilet
completed,hecenteredhisconcernuponthemorevitalmatteroffinances.He
was close to the nadir: four sovereigns, a florin, and a collection of battered
coppersthatwouldhavetickledthepulseofanamateurnumismatist.
"Novintageto-night,myboy;nolong,fatHavana,either.Abottleofstoutanda
few rags of plug-cut; that's the pace we'll travel this evening. The United
RomanceandAdventureCompanyisnotlistedatpresent.Ifitwas,I'dsellafew
shares on my own hook. The kind Lord knows that I've stock enough and to
spare."Helaughedagain,butwithouttheleavenofhumor."Whenthefool-killer
snatches up the last fool, let rogues look to themselves; and fools are getting
scarcereveryday.
"Percival Algernon! O age of poets! I wonder, does he wear high collars and
spats, or has she plumbed him accurately? She is generally right. But a man
changes some in seven years. I'm an authority when it comes to that. Look
what's happened to me in seven years! First, Horace, we shall dine, then we'll
smoke our pipe in the billiard-room, then we'll softly approach Percival
Algernon and introduce him to Sinbad. This independent excursion to Bagdad
wasastrokeonmypart;itwillworkintothegeneralplanassmoothlyasifit
had been grooved for the part. Sinbad. I might just as well have assumed that
name: Horace Sinbad, sounds well and looks well." He mused in silence, his
handgentlyrubbinghischin;forhedidpossessthetrickoftalkingaloud,ina
lowmonotone,ahabitacquiredduringperiodsofloneliness,whenthesoundof

hisownvoicehadsucceededinsteadyinghistotteringmind.
Whatawoman,whatawife,shewouldhavebeentotherightman!Oddthing,a
mancandoalmostanythingbutdirecthisaffections;theymustbedrawn.She
wasnotforhim;nay,notevenonadesertisle.Doubtlesshewasafool.Intime
shewouldhavemadehimarichman.Alack!Itwasalwaystheonewepursued


thatwelovedandnevertheonethatpursuedus.
"I'mafraidofher;andthereyouare.Thereisn'tamanlivingwhohasgoneback
of that Mona Lisa smile of hers. If she was the last woman and I was the last
man,Idon'tsay."Hehuntedforacigarette,butfailedtofindone."Almostatthe
bottom, boy; the winter of our discontent, and no sun of York to make it
glorious. Twenty-four hundred at cards, and to lose it like a tyro! Wallace has
taughtmeallheknows,butI'mabooby.Twenty-fourhundred,firm'smoney.It's
afailingofmine,thefirm'smoney.But,damnitall,Ican'tcheatamanatcards;
I'drathercuthisthroat."
He found his pipe, and a careful search of the corners of his coat-pockets
revealedameagerpipefuloftobacco.Hepickedoutthelittleballsofwool,the
ground-coffee,thecloves,andpushedthechargehomeintothecrustedbowlof
hisbriar.
"Tothedevilwitheconomy!Apintofburgundyandaperfectoiftheyhaleusto
jailforit.I'mdeadtired.I'veseenthreecornersinhellinthepasttwomonths.
I'mgoingasfarasfoursovereignswilltakeme....FortuneChedsoye."Hisblue
eyesbecamelesshardandhismouthlessdefiant."Irepeat,theheartshouldbe
nothing but a pump. Otherwise it gets in the way, becomes an obstruction, a
bottomless pit. Will-power, that's the ticket. I can face a lion without an extra
beat,Icanfacethevariouscountenancesofdeathwithoutanadditionalflutter;
andyet,here'sagirlwho,whenIseeherorthinkofher,sendsthepulsesoaring
from seventy-seven up to eighty-four. Bad business; besides, it's so infernally
unfashionable.It'shardworkforamantokeephisbalance'twixtthedeviland

the deep, blue sea; Gioconda on one side and Fortune on the other. Gioconda
throws open windows and doors at my approach; but Fortune locks and bars
hers,norknocksatmine.That'sthewayitalwaysgoes.
"Ifamancouldonlygobacktenyearsandtakeanewstart.Ass!"ballinghisfist
at the reflection in the mirror. "Snivel and whine over the bed of your own
making. You had your opportunity, but you listened to the popping of
champagne-corks,themutterofcards,theinanedrivelofchorus-ladies.Youhad
adecentcollegerecord,too.Bah!Whataguilelessfoolyouwere!Youranon,
didn't you, till you found your neck in the loop at the end of the rope? And
perhaps that soft-footed, estimable brother of yours didn't yank it taut as a
hangman's?Youheardthecodicil;intooneearandouttheother.Eventhenyou
had your chance; patience for two short years, and a million. No, a thousand
timesno.Youknewwhatyouwereabout,empty-headedfool!Andto-day,two
penniesforadeadman'seyes."


He dropped his fist dejectedly. Where had the first step begun? And where
wouldbethelast?Insomedrabcorner,possibly;drink,morphine,orstarvation;
he'd never have the courage to finish it with a bullet. He was terribly bitter.
Everythingworthwhileseemedtohaveslippedthroughhisfingers,hispleasurelovingfingers.
"Come, come, Horace; buck up. Still the ruby kindles in the vine. No turning
backnow.We'llgoontillwecomebang!againstthewall.Theremaybesome
goodboutsbetweenhereandthere.I wonder what Gioconda would say if she
knewwhyIwassoeagerforthisgame?"
He went down to dinner, and they gave him a table in an obscure corner, as a
subtle reminder that his style was passé. He didn't care; he was hungry and
thirsty. He could see nearly every one, even if only a few could see him. This
wassomewhattohisvantage.HeendeavoredtopickoutPercivalAlgernon;but
thereweretoomanyhighcollars,toomanymonocles.Sohecontentedhimself
withamildphilosophicalobservanceofthescene.Themurmurofvoices,rising

asthewailoftheviolinssank,sinkingasthewailrose;thetinkleofglassand
china,thesilverandlinen,theprettywomenintheirrustlinggowns,thedelicate
perfumes, the flash of an arm, the glint of a polished shoulder: this was the
essenceoflifehecoveted.Hesmiledatthethoughtandthesureknowledgethat
he was not the only wolf in the fold. Ay, and who among these dainty Red
RidingHoodsmightbefooledbyavulpinegrandmother?Truth,whenafellow
winnoweditalldowntoahandful,therewereonlyfoolsandrogues.Ifonewas
afool,theroguegotyou,andheinturndevouredhimself.
He held his glass toward the table-lamp, moved it slowly to and fro under his
nose, epicureanly; then he sipped the wine. Something like! It ran across his
tongueanddownhisthroatintinglingfire,nectarious;andhewenthalfwayto
Olympus,tothefeetofthegods.Forweekshehadlivedinthevilesthaunts,in
desperatestraits,hislifeinhisopenhands;andnowoncemorehehadcrawled
from the depths to the outer crust of the world. It did not matter that he was
destinedtogodownintothedepthsagain;solongasthesparkburnedhewas
going to crawl back each time. Damnable luck! He could have lived like a
prince.Twenty-fourhundred,andallintwonights,asteadystreamofgoldinto
the pockets of men whom he could have cheated with consummate ease, and
didn't.Afinewolf,whosepredatoryinstinctswerestillrivetedtothatobsolete
thingcalledconscience!
"Conscience?Rot!Letusforoncebefrankandwriteitdownascaution,asfear
of publicity, anything but the white guardian-angel of the immortality of the


soul.Heapupthegold,Apollyon;heapitup,higherandhigher,tillnotasqueak
ofthatstillsmallvoicethatonceawokethechapintheOldTestamentcanever
againbeheard.Now;nomoreretrospection,Horace;nomoreanalysis;thevital
question simmers down to this: If Percival Algernon balks, how far will four
sovereignsgo?"

CHAPTERIII
THEHOLYYHIORDES
George drank his burgundy perfunctorily. Had it been astringent as the native
wineofCorsica,hewouldnothavenoticedit.Thelittlenervesthatranfromhis
tongue to his brain had temporarily lost the power of communication. And all
becauseofthegirlacrosstheway.Hecouldn'tkeephiseyesfromwanderingin
herdirection.Shefacedhimdiagonally.Sheatebutlittle,andwhentheelderly
gentleman poured out for her a glass of sauterne, she motioned it aside, rested
herchinuponherfoldedhands,andstarednotatbutthroughhervis-à-vis.
Itwasalovelyhead,toppedwithcoilsoflustrous,lightbrownhair;anovalface,
ofwhiteandroseandivorytones;scarletlips,asmall,regularnose,andachin
the soft roundness of which hid the resolute lift to it. To these attributes of
lovelinesswasaddedaperfectform,thelong,flowingcurvesofyouth,notthe
abrupt contours of maturity. George couldn't recollect when he had been so
impressedbyaface.Fromthemomentshehadsteppeddownfromthecarriage,
his interest had been drawn, and had grown to such dimensions that when he
entered the dining-room his glance immediately searched for her table. What
luckinfindingheracrosstheway!Hequestionedifhehadeverseenherbefore.
Therewassomethingfamiliar;thedelicateprofilestirredsomesleepingmemory
butdidnotwakeit.
Howtomeether,andwhenhedidmeether,howtointeresther?Ifshewould
only drop her handkerchief, her purse, something to give him an excuse, an
opening. Ah, he was certain that this time the hydra-headed one should not
overcomehim.Togainherattentionandtoholdit,hewouldhavefacedalion,a
tiger,awild-elephant.TodiagnosethesesymptomsmightnotbefairtoGeorge.
"Love at first sight" reads well and sounds well, but we hoary-headed
philosophersknowthatthephraseisonlypoeticallicense.
Once,andonlyonce,shelookedinhisdirection.Itsweptoverhimwiththechill
ofawinterwindthathemeantasmuchtoherasatree,afence,ameadow,as

seenfromthewindowofaspeedingrailwaytrain.Butthisobservation,transient
asitwas,leftwithhimtheindelibleimpressionthathereyeswerethesaddesthe
hadeverseen.Why?Whyshouldayoungandbeautifulgirlhaveeyeslikethat?